The pastor closed his eyes.

“That was settled long ago,” Whitcomb whispered.

“Not legally,” Graham said, tapping the folder. “The original ledgers are right here. My mother kept excellent records.”

“You would destroy the church’s reputation for a real estate deal?” Whitcomb asked.

“I will do whatever it takes to secure my assets,” Graham said. “Sign the release for the north pasture acreage, and these files go into the furnace.”

Julian stepped out from behind the pillar.

“That signature won’t hold up in court, Graham,” Julian said, his voice calm and steady.

Graham spun around, his eyes narrowing as he saw us.

“Voss,” Graham spat. “And my lovely wife. I should have known you’d be clinging to my mother’s apron strings.”

“The board of trustees requires three signatures to transfer parish land,” Julian said, walking toward the altar steps. “Even if you force Arthur to sign, you don’t have the majority.”

“I have my mother’s proxy,” Graham said, pulling a folded piece of paper from his pocket.

“That proxy was revoked three hours ago,” I said, stepping forward.

Graham looked at me, a flash of genuine anger crossing his face.